More Than You Know (9 page)

In fact, much more likely, he would never see her again.

“Charles? It’s me. Look—a friend of mine makes the most fabulous jumpers and things; she’s looking for a studio/workshop. Would that be the sort of thing your nice friend Matt might be able to help with, do you think?”

“Possibly. I’ll give you his number. Oh, and Juliet wondered if we could go out for a meal together next week. She says she wants to get to know you better.”

“Oh—course. Sounds wonderful. Only thing is, I’m quite busy next week.”

“Well, the one after then. Why don’t I get her to ring you?”

“Lovely idea. Yes. I’ll look forward to it. Now—Matt’s number?”

As she waited, she contemplated Juliet and an evening with her and Charles.

Juliet Judd—her name alone made Eliza want to giggle; it was like a girl in a cartoon—was his new girlfriend, and he appeared oddly besotted by her.

She worked as a secretary for the lawyers who worked for Charles’s stockbroking firm, and she was a hugely irritating, simpering creature, so much the sort of girl Eliza disapproved of that she found it hard even to be polite to her. She was acutely and self-consciously feminine, a blue-eyed blonde, but her hair was overstyled and, at a time when most girls were wearing simple, ever-shorter shift dresses, or Mary Quant’s pinafores over black sweaters, she favoured girly blouses and flared skirts,
or neat little suits, and always had matching bags and shoes and gloves. She had left Roedean with two O-levels and gone to finishing school in Paris, where she had learnt to cook and sew and do flowers and was always saying things like “I don’t think men like girls to be too clever.”

Eliza was sure it wouldn’t last; it was the novelty, she kept telling herself.

“Matt! This one’s for you. Nice little building out Paddington way, near the station. Three thousand square feet, three floors, see what you can do with it. Landlord’s in a hurry, burnt his fingers a bit with his financing, OK?”

“Fine,” said Matt. He still hadn’t got over the excitement of having his own clients, of sorting out a deal. He phoned the landlord: a sharp young man, no older than Matt himself, called Colin White. They met at the building, which had been a warehouse and had had only the most minimal work done—new windows, whitewash on the walls—and White professed great nonchalance over the deal.

“I want the right tenant, and I don’t want no hassle, people moving out again in a year. I want it settled, so I don’t have to think about it anymore, OK?”

Matt said OK but he thought the rent was too high.

“It’s a good space but it’s the location; I just don’t see it as offices, more manufacturing, storage, that sort of thing.”

“Well, I don’t,” said White coolly. “I spent a lot of money on this place, Shaw; I want a proper return.”

Matt went back to the office and trawled through his files. It wasn’t going to be easy. The building might make a light factory, but it certainly didn’t seem suitable for the offices Colin White was so determined on.

Two days later he was three-quarters of the way through his list of prospects; nobody wanted it. Then Pat, the telephonist, put a call through.

“Potential client, Matt. Sounds really sweet.”

Pat would have described the Kray twins as sweet had they telephoned Barlow and Stein; Matt picked up the phone warily. A female voice said she had heard he might be able to help her.

“My name’s Maddy Brown. I’m looking for some premises for my business.”

“What type of business would that be?”

“Well, fashion. I design clothes.”

“Oh, yes. And where are you working at the moment?”

“In my parents’ house.”

“I see.”

That wasn’t going to pay Colin White’s rent. He’d heard about these girls, straight out of art school, looking to cash in on what the papers called the youth boom. Probably hadn’t got a single customer. As politely as he could, he suggested she take a flat with a spare room. “Or carry on working at your parents’ place. Just till you get going a bit.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s a very interesting idea. Thank you for absolutely nothing.” She put the phone down.

Matt returned to his Rolodex. The phone rang again.

“Matt? It’s another young lady. What you been up to?”

“Nothing. Unfortunately. Put her through.”

“Is that Matt Shaw?” said a voice. A voice he recognized at once, a voice that tipped his world on end, a voice he could have listened to forever.

“It’s Eliza Fullerton-Clark here. I’m ringing about Maddy Brown. Whom I work with, incidentally.”

Shit
, Matt thought.
SHIT!

“Maddy said you were worse than useless, absolutely no help at all, and offensive into the bargain.”

“I was not offensive,” said Matt, stung. He’d made a suggestion that would save the wretched woman money.

“Well, I’m afraid you were. By making the assumption that she was some silly girl with not an idea or a business contact in her head. Just because she was a woman.”

This was so true Matt couldn’t even begin to deny it.

“Suppose Miss Brown had been Mr. Brown? You’d have assumed backing, clients, customers, wouldn’t you? You’d have taken all kinds of details from him, what kind of premises he wanted, where, how many thousand feet was he looking for, what kind of rent was he prepared to pay—”

“Well—”

“I don’t somehow think you’d have told Mr. Brown to use a room in his flat for a while, until he got going. Well, just so you know, let me tell you about the client you could have had. Miss—not Mr.—Brown has just got a very big contract from a chain of boutiques. Do you know what a boutique is? A shop selling fashion to young people. Absolutely the latest thing at the moment, big, big business. And the people who own them are desperate for young designers to supply them with what they need. And Miss Brown has backing to the tune of over fifty thousand pounds. Pity, you really blew it. Bye then. We’ve got other agents to call, fortunately.”

Matt put the phone down and felt so angry with himself that he punched his desk so hard that the knuckles hurt for days.

He sat, smoking rather feverishly, wondering if there was anything, anything at all that he could do that would redeem him in the eyes of Eliza Fullerton-Clark, and he decided that next morning he would have to apologize. Really crawl. And then he had another idea.

He went into the office early, dialled Woolfe’s number, and asked for the PR department.

“Hallo. Eliza Clark speaking.”

So she didn’t use the Fullerton bit at work; Matt wondered why. He took a very deep breath.

“Miss Clark, good morning. This is Matt Shaw.”

“Yes?” she said coldly. Very coldly.

“I wanted to apologize. To you and Miss Brown. For yesterday. It was stupid and insensitive of me, and I feel really embarrassed about it. And … and … the thing is I think I might have the perfect space for Miss Brown.”

Silence.

“It’s in Paddington. It used to be a warehouse. It’s three floors, about three thousand feet, perfect for storing clothes and … and that sort of thing. And room for an office space and … and a studio, if that was required. It’s not too expensive, and I’d really like to show it to Miss Brown if you think she’d agree. And if she hasn’t got anywhere else yet.”

“Well, I can certainly ask her,” said Eliza finally, “and I don’t think she has got anywhere else, no. I’ll see if I can get her to call you.”

“Right. And … and if you’d like to come along yourself,” he said, “see what you think about it, that would be fine.”

She wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t.

But, “Yes,” she said, “I think I might. If I have time. And, Matt, thank you for phoning and for apologising.” Her voice was warmer, smiley even. “It was nice of you. We’ll be in touch.”

Perfect happiness doesn’t come often in life. It came to Matt then.

He arrived at the building an hour before the appointed time, walking round and round it, checking every door and window, even every electrical fitting, anything, in fact, that might prompt a query. He was determined not to be caught out in any particular.

He watched from an upstairs window as they arrived in Eliza’s Fiat. Eliza was wearing a short red shift, long black boots, and sunglasses; she looked amazing. Maddy was very pretty too: tiny, with long blond hair falling down her back; it was hard to believe she’d got this important contract Eliza had been shouting at him about.

Maddy loved the building, said it was absolutely fab; Eliza had been more practical. She said it needed a lot of money to convert it and that Maddy didn’t actually need three floors.

“It really is too big,” said Eliza. “And too expensive. You’d be crazy, Maddy, far too much of an overhead for the business. But, Matt, suppose we found you a tenant for the third floor? A photographer we know, Jerome Blake, is looking for a studio.”

“That would be fine,” said Matt, “as long as he negotiated through us, of course. I’m sure the landlord would be very grateful for an introduction.”

“I should think he would,” said Eliza. “I would expect a reduction of your fee, as a matter of fact.”

“Well I … That is …”

She grinned at him suddenly.

“I wasn’t serious. Maddy’ll ring you when she’s made a decision. And as you can tell, she does quite like the place.”

Jerome Blake (real name Jim Biggs), the photographer, had been very keen to take the top floor as a studio; Colin White agreed to a slight reduction in Maddy’s rent, and a deal was struck.

The whole incident had rather changed his opinion of Eliza. She was gorgeous and she was sexy, but she was very bossy. Not used to being crossed, obviously, or even argued with. It would probably do her good—just as long as it wasn’t he who had to do it.